All posts by Jim

the old mariner

A Pocket of Resistance, Sea Stories

“ho, ahoy, ho.”
there was no response;
he shuffled up the hill to the zenith,
looked out on the world,
or
the small part of the world surrounding him
except
the Pacific to the west,
the vast sea where 
he had been a mariner,
a talker to the sea
on the oceans and the seas
aboard those ships in the harbor below,
those warrior women with 
armored visors, the bridge,
from which the talker peered out
to determine safe passage.

at the top of the hill, the talker stood,
no longer able to ride those waves:
restricted by infirmities of those talkers 
who lived to age;
from the pocket of his frayed pea coat,
he pulled out a boatswain pipe
attached to a white lanyard the bosun’s wife
had macramed;
the pipe on which
the bosun had taught him to pipe
and
then gave the pipe and lanyard to him
as the talker left his final ship.

the talker held the pipe in his right hand
with his index finger 
curved over the pipe’s “gun,”
put the pipe to his lips,
and
trilled “attention” to no one
for he was the only one to pause and listen.

the talker stood at attention, 
looking toward the horizon,
but
no ship appeared, not even “hull down;”
after a short while, he turned,
shuffling back down the hill
to never return again.

Sad, Missing Things, and Other Thoughts of a Curmudgeon

A Pocket of Resistance

i have been frequently accepting i am not of now.

i will not beat up today as it has evolved because of us. There are good new things, and there are new bad things, sort of like it’s always been.

i am old, not part of today, a relic. i am okay with that.

◆ ◆ ◆

My last political thought of this year, perhaps forever: It appears to be that everyone, regardless of their political persuasion are in favor of age and term limits, except of course for politicians themselves of every political persuation who profit mightily financially and being in power.

But, like the weather, no one does a thing about it — Lord, what song did that come from? If i were 30-40 years younger, i might become politically active to fight for 2-term limits on all elected officials, forbidding anyone over 70 from holding an elected postion, and requiring our elected officials to be subject to the same regulations as all of the other citizens of the country.

But i am old and have found no one takes anyone my age seriously…and no no one should who are within 10-12 years of my age, especially elected officials .

i just don’t understand how our citizens don’t take action to amend the current state of political destruction.

◆ ◆ ◆

Other than that last political comment, i have recognized i am not of this world and time. i am an old salty sea dog and no longer fit. i try, try hard to fit in this world of computers, financial maneuverings, new fangled products, commercialism, etc., etc. But i truly am from another world. There are many wonderful things from our advances. i am glad, even profit from many, especially in the medical field. i use this thing called artificial intelligence as it has provided me answers to many questions. i am glad for those younger than me who are enjoying the advantages in the world today.

◆ ◆ ◆

i’m just thankful for things i have enjoyed, even loved in a world long ago, but miss. Such as:

At somewhere around three or four, being allowed to play in our front and back yards with no supervision. Having no restrictions wandering around our neighborhood to play with what seems to have been an infinite number of boys and girls my age, only required to be home at lunch or dinner time.

Having an open field next to our house, owned by our neighbors on the other side where all sports were played, snowmen were built.

Walking to and from school alone after the first day of first grade and stopping at Little Eskew’s for bubble gum with baseball cards and candy.

Walking to the old house on Main Street. which for a good while was the city library and checking out books, biographies of American heroes of every varity without revealing those heroes faults.

Spending weeks at my great uncle’s farm at the intersection of Blair Lane and Hickory Ridge Road, rising at 4:00am with “Papa” to call the cows, walk them to the barn and milk them by hand, feeding the hogs in the sty, and walking back over the fields to the tin-roofed farmhouse to eat home-made bacon, eggs from the chicken coop, homemade buttermilk, grits, biscuits with home produced butter and plum preserves.

Eating watermelon in the back yard and spitting out the abundant seeds. Making homemade peach ice cream in that same back yard, grinding the ice cream maker covered with dry ice and then covered with towels and blankets: best ice cream ever.

Watching the boarding cadets from Castle Heights Military Academy, from first grade up, marching to church on Sunday morning down Main Street, dropping them off at various churches.

Listening to reveille, taps, colors, the sounds from the Sunday marches and the Saturday football games at Heights from our home down the hill from the school.

Never locking our car and only locking our house when we went to sleep.

Oh, there are so many more things i miss, but i will close with the Christmas tree: From a very young age, my younger brother and sister with myself would accompany our father out to Papa’s farm and cut a Christmas tree from the cedars, which were prolific on the farm. Invariably, they were too big and had to be shortened to fit in our living room. As we grew older, Daddy allowed us to fetch the cedar tree. At least one year, we traveled to the farm in my sister’s 1959 Vauxhall, cut the tree, tied it to the top of the car and brought it home.

It felt like Christmas.

May all of you have a wonderful Christmas that will give you memories of things that you will miss.

Merry Christmas.

Op Lifts: A Big Adventure

Sea Stories

i have been embroiled in a bunch of old man difficulties and thusly, have been absent for a while. i will attempt to be more active now.

We received the orders from Commander, Seventh Fleet. Our short timers’ chains were beginning to look small. We had long rid ourselves of the mid-cruise blues – For some inexplicable reason, this was the last time i experienced the malady. The scourge had been prominent in earlier deployments, but this one been rougher. Fortunately, i was no longer wallowing in feeling sorry for myself being away from my wife and daughter.

Another sign came that our time to start home came in a radio message. Anchorage was in Sasebo, Japan, undergoing repairs to our stern gate at the Navy base. Our two-week Repair Availibility had been extended from ten days to almost a month, an annoying period as our operations for the deployment had been non-stop, chaotic, successful, and fun. With a couple of days remaining, the radio message ordered us to make a stop at Keelung, Taiwan and load a 105-ton fueling sea buoy to take back to San Diego as “opportune lift.”

The CO (one of the best i had), CDR Art Wright, and i read the message together and immediately fired off a message to the command in Keelung, with copies to the chain of command. We requested schematics of the beast in order to stow it properly in the well deck for the transit across the Pacific. It took a month for the schematics to get there. i spread the schematics across a table in the Deck office, and immediately took them to the captain.

The schematics showed a pipe three feet in diameter extending about four feet from the center of the bottom of the buoy. We sent another radio message to the Keelung command. They came back noting that there was no pipe currently extending from the buoy. We asked them to confirm. By now, we knew the coordinator of the project was a LCDR Supply Officer. He replied he had been to the site where the buoy was stored and stated there was no pipe and  attached several photos. However, we could not discern from the photos that the pipe was gone. After one more query to the supply officer, we accepted his statement that the buoy had a flat bottom.

This was in 1975. Nixon was sending Kissinger to Beijing. As they always do, the state department did not want to antagonize the country with whom they were negotiating. So, they ordered all Navy ships to not go into Taiwan or get close.

Problem: Commander, Seventh Fleet, was not thrilled that the sea buoy was not going to get back to the states. Radio messages to only Naval commands, specifically from Seventh Fleet to USS Anchorage, with “info to” all commands in our chain. Anchorage would sail into Keelung just after dawn, load the sea buoy and leave as quickly as possible. CDR Wright, the Beachmaster Bosun, Joe Messenger, and i estimated it would take about four hours.

So, USS Anchorage, in defiance of the State Department’s edict, stood into Keelung Harbor, Saturday, October 25 after first light. It was a sunny day and the harbor was calm. We moored at the quay wall after entering the harbor, ballasted down, filling the well deck, and launching the two LARCs (Lighter, Amphibious Resupply, Cargo) craft – Beachmaster units, which were normally on LSDs like the Anchorage and used to support amphibious beach landings.

The LARCs with Bosun Messenger leading, went to where the sea buoy had been transported and lowered into the bay. The Beachmasters tied off the buoy between the two LARCs, and brought it back to the ship. They moved it to the front of one LARC and pushed it to the forward end of the well deck. The LARC held the buoy in place as we ballasted up with the water receding from the well deck.

It all looked good as the water receded. i reported to the captain on my sound powered phones. My reports were all good…until the water level was just under four feet. The sea buoy began to tilt around. From the forward well deck under the mezzanine deck, Hansborough and i looked at each other with troubled in our eyes. i asked ballast control to slowly continue to ballast up. More of the buoy’s bottom was revealed.

Hansborough and i crouched low. Both of us saw the protruding pipe that wasn’t supposed to be there according to that supply lieutenant commander was definitely there.

i notified the captain and asked Ballast control to ballast down and float the buoy, When the buoy floated, the Beachmasters moved it out and secured it to the quay wall aft of us.

Now, we had a real problem. i asked if we could ask the lieutenant commander why the protruding pipe was still there. i was informed that guy had showed up with a date, and when the buoy began to tilt, he left and could not be reached.

CDR Art Wright called a conference in the wardroom for everyone who might contribute to solving the problem, including the head of the Navy’s office in Keelung. He told us there was a shop in downtown Keelung which might be able to create blocks to support the buoy. Our supply officer, the Keelung US Navy representative, and i went out into town, looking for a place that might be able to provide us some blocks to support the sea buoy.

The problem was complicated by that day being a Chinese holiday. Nearly all places were closed, but the Navy’s Keelung representative found a place open that might provide us the needed blocks. Our contingent went. Everyone else was negotating with the manager of this place. i wandered off and began walking around this rather unusual shop. i walked out to their open space. All sorts of rather incredible wood products and art work was in this large outdoor area. Against the fence bordering the property were two tree trunks, huge, at least six feet in diameter and well over thirty feet long.

The negotations  were not going well. The manager and our folks could not come up with a solution.

i interupted to tell of my amazement at those two logs out in the back yard. The negotiators seemed surprised by my observation.  The discussions became more energized. Our guys, SUPPO and the interpreter asked if they could cut those trunks into five-foot blocks. The Taiwanese shop owners replied they could and were excited. They did not have any idea what they were going to do with those trunks that took up a large amount of space in their outdoor storage yard. This would greatly relieve that problem for them.

The negotiations went quickly after that. Demensions were determined. The price, relatively inexpensive for such a large amount of wood cuts, was agreed upon. And the deal was done. The shop would deliver the blocks by truck early the next morning.

When we returned, CDR Wright was appreciative. He had instructed the XO to grant liberty in the local area to conclude at 2200.

We had a meeting in the wardroom with the XO, the Damage Control Assistant and his leading chief Hull Technician, the Engineer and his ballast control team, Bosun Messenger and BM1 Stubbe of the Beachmasters unit, and BM1 Hansborough and me. We went over the plans for securing the sea buyoy and the blocks, including welding shoring to the well deck bulkheads and the buoy. Satisfied, we ended the meeting. 

After the evening mess, CDR Wright and i went ashore to a bar located on the waterfront for a beer.

There were about twenty or so Anchorage sailors there, enjoying an unexpected night of liberty. They cheered us as heroes. They had one last night of liberty in Taiwan.

The captain and i had a beer with the boys and headed back to the ship.

Early next morning, two flat-bed trucks arrived on the quay wall with the four wooden blocks cut from the tree trunks i saw in the outdoor yard of the shop. Cranes lifted them aboard and placed them on the starboard side of the well deck just aft of where the ramp from the mezzanine deck ended. 

Once again, the beachmasters used their LARCs to position the buoy. This time it was over the blocks, just like the previous disaster, but this time the four blocks were beneath the buoy. It was like the drydocking of a ship in drydock. The LARCs departed and the well deck was drained slowly. Hansborough and i were again forward kneeling down, sound powered phones talking to the bridge, watching. The buoy settled on the blocks, and the damnable pipe was about a half foot from the deck. Perfect.

The hull technicians under guidance of the damage control assistant welded telescoping metal shoring to the sea buoy and to each side of the well deck. It was stable.

Anchorage re-loaded the LARCS beside the LCU and LCM8s. We closed the stern gate, set the sea detail, and proceeded to stand out of Keelung’s harbor. As far as i know, the State Department, Kissinger, nor President Nixon ever learned of our sneaking into Taiwan.

As we got underway, i relaxed. “Good job, done,” i thought. i was relieved as Sea Detail OOD, and went down to my office to write the on-load report and other paperwork piling up in my inbox. i stood the second dog (1800-2000) bridge watch as OOD. Towards the end of the watch, the seas were worsening. Reports indicated we could experience a sea state of four through the morning. Art Wright called me over to his captain’s chair on the starboard side.

“Jim,” the captain began, “i am very concerned about the stability of that jury rig on the sea buoy, especially with the seas we are expecting to run into through the night.

“i want you to take station down there with a sound-powered phone to the bridge.

“If you see anything that seems unstable, call the bridge. Due to the weather, i will be on the bridge all night. We will figure out how to deal with it, but we need that early warning.”

i, of course, replied, “Aye, aye, Sir.”

i went back to my stateroom and slept for about two hours. i awoke around 2000, put on my working khakis, and reported to the bridge. i told the captain i was headed for the well deck, grabbed a folding chair, and headed for the well deck.

There i sat, from about 2100 (9:00 p.m.) until 0600 (6:00 a.m.) babysitting a 109-ton behemoth refueling sea buoy, which was sitting on blocks of Taiwanese wood secured to our wing walls by metal shoring. As the seas worsened, it or the shoring groaned alot, and it seemed the buoy moved slightly a bunch of times, but resumed its original position.

My “sea buoy watch” ended with no significant problems other than this first lieutenant sitting in a folding chair wondering what the hell i was going to do if the thing broke loss and rolled around the well deck.

It didn’t.

i was glad.

The Other Brother

A Pocket of Resistance

There are some things that never change, For me, one of those “things” is the relationship i have with George Henry Harding, IV. We have been friends since we first met at our christening in May 1945 at the Lebanon First Methodist Church in Lebanon. i was a year and four months old. Henry was a year and one month old.

We are not alike. Henry is tall, dark, handsome, and still has hair. Me…well, let’s not go there.

i probably spent as much, if not more time at Henry’s home as i did at mine after the age of seven or so, until i left for parts known and unknown when we turned 24.

Henry went to Lebanon High School. i went to Castle Heights Military Academy. We remained close and spent our weekends when not playing football, basketball, baseball together, as well as nights listening to his father’s “party” records of Moms Mabely and Redd Foxx in the front room of his home.

Henry went to the University of Tennessee. I went to Vanderbilt and graduated from Middle Tennessee.

Henry was enlisted Army and an ordance instructor in Maryland. i went to Navy OCS and eventually made the Navy my career.

Henry stilll lives in that house where we played. i have lived in a dozen places, most while being aboard 10 ships that traveled to many places, except Northern Europe and around South America.

We still talk to each other, but now, it is nearly allways by long distance phone calls. Each time, no matter how long in between, it’s like we pick up the conversation where we left off the previous time. 

Henry remains a die-hard Tennessee football fan. i continue to be a dyed–in-the-wool Vanderbilt fan. We cheer for our respective teams and enjoy the successes of the other.

Remarkably, we seem to think alike on most subjects, especially politics.

We rag at each other in the most jovial manner.

He is like another brother.

This weekend i initiated a string of emails about the Vanderbilt-Tennessee football game. i expressed my thrill at Vandy’s win but also expressed some sadness that the Vols had to lose.

This exchange went on for several emails. When i closed out, i made the comment that like Waylon Jennings sang, “I’ve always been crazy but it’s kept me from going insane.”

Henry’s reply:

“Too late.”

Not only is he like a brother, he knows me well.

Body and Soul, Two of Them

A Pocket of Resistance

i, in my old age frenzy, have replaced a great deal of writing with reading, which in my youth was my frenzy in addition to sports.

Strangely, i have selected several different types of reading: old ones off the shelf i’ve read several times from back when. New ones others have suggested, even loaned me. i read old-man-late after that beautiful woman has gone to bed until i too am tired, and the eyelids flutter and the head nods.

i read out of several books at a time, wishing i could stay awake all night and pore over the pages in a fever like i did back a long time ago under the sheets with a flashlight to prevent my folks from knowing i was violating the sleep rules.

Something from which i would have spurned until now i find…intriguing, i think is the word: Literary History of the United States by erudite scholars Spiller, Thorpe, Canby, and Ludwig. i’m sure it was one of my college course books. i never read it. Now, i learn when learning is not required. Yet loquacious, a term for talkative, prevails in the writing, almost pompous, and i marvel at myself reading with pleasure such an academic tome.

i also have returned to favorites: Faulkner, Warren, Greene, Doctorow. i currently am re-reading David Maraniss book on Vietnam, They Marched to Sunlight.

i read several at a time. In addition to the history tome, and Maraniss, i’m near the conclusions of Robert Penn Warren’s Or Else: Poem/Poems 1968-1971, and Ibrahim Al Nashashibi’s Gratefulness: Messages from the Heart to the Mind (I have written before of Ibrahim’s books and his restaurant Farouz in San Diego. He was born in Jerusalem, has a Jewish and Muslim background, and is an amazing gentleman).

Saturday night after all the football games had gone to bed, i read a poem of Ibrahim’s, “The Vessel and the Traveler.” Ibrahim discussed the relationship between the soul and the body. As usual, it was thoughful and produced some deep considerations for me.

Then i picked up Warren’s book and read “Interjection #7: Remarks of Soul to Body.” As usual, Warren captures me with power of his images.

The poems were different. But they expressed a relationship about ourselves i have often wondered. And here were these two men from amazingly different times, locales, and backgrounds addressing the same themes. i was struck by reading them randomly on the same night.

Oh, i wish they could have met and talked about those two poems.

Of course, i and my brother Joe, would have to be sitting in the back of the room listening.